


Ravenous

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blindfolds, Light Bondage, Love, Sense Play, Sensuality, Trust, and isn't very good but has a lovely time anyway, wherein Crowley tries to figure out this domination thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 03:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19417966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Crowley laughs softly, delightedly. “Oh don’t blame me for this, angel.” He nuzzled Aziraphale’s ear again, lighter this time. “Are you going to behave for me?”Curiosity might have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, and Aziraphale is nothing if not curious and must have that curiosity sated. But of course, he knows himself well enough to say, “I’ll try my best.”Crowley rubs his cheek lightly against Aziraphale’s ear. “Good angel,” he whispers with such approval that Aziraphale suspects he will be soft as butter by the time the night is out.





	Ravenous

**Author's Note:**

> The very night I posted Starved and was so relieved it was all out of my head, in walked this monster. I have been reliably informed that if I'm going to tell their story, I will tell all of it, thank you very much.

They are taking things slow.

Aziraphale understand why and sometimes, it is an exercise in restraint to remember.

He has spent lifetimes indulging his every pleasure, except the one he thought was impossible. Now that he knows he can, he would happily spend hour upon hour, lavishing his fond attentions on Crowley, to remind him how he is cherished and adored.

Crowley, though…

A multitude of lifetimes without, like a man lost in the desert reaching water. Even a little is enough. Too much of a good thing can be as bad as too little and Aziraphale is determined to make sure that it – and he – is never too much, not until Crowley wants him to be.

Still, Crowley indulges him and in the quiet of the evenings in the book shop, when the wine has run dry and the streets outside the windows are quiet, he’ll lie with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, his eyes closed, as Aziraphale tenderly strokes his shock of hair, his other hand resting lightly on Crowley’s breast.

It’s longer now.

He suspects Crowley has been pushing it to grow faster. Long enough to curl around his fingers. Long enough to clench a fist in. Long enough to run his fingers through over and over until Crowley is limp and content beside him, one leg slung over the back of the couch, the other trailing on the floor.

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs, one such evening.

“Yes?”

The demon tilts his head back just a little, his eyes open and almost human now. “D’you trust me?”

Aziraphale stares at him for the longest of moments. “Of course I do. Why on earth would you think I didn’t?”

One side of Crowley’s mouth quirks up. “Not like that,” he says, reaching up to cover Aziraphale’s hand on his chest. “If we– I mean, if I wanted to… do something.” He flushes, which is both charming and bewildering. “Would you trust me not to do anything to you that you didn’t want?”

Aziraphale’s heart flutters. “Do– what do you have in mind?”

Crowley shakes his head, his hair catching on Aziraphale’s fingers. “Just wondering.”

Aziraphale turns his hand to capture Crowley’s and lifts it to rub his cheek into Crowley’s palm, earning one of those lovely shivers from Crowley. “I’ve put my life in your hands more times than I can count,” he murmurs. “I would trust you with every part of me.”

Crowley blinks up at him, wide-eyed. “Right,” he says, his voice a little hoarser.

It’s always so lovely when he gets flustered like that and Aziraphale limits himself to kissing Crowley’s knuckles before releasing his hand.

They don’t say anything more about it and after several leisurely weeks pass by, he almost forgets Crowley even asked such a silly question. In hindsight, he realises that it’s very hard to give someone a surprise when you have tacitly implied there may be one on the way.

It arrives in the shape of hands closing over his eyes the moment he steps into the bookshop.

He takes a sharp breath, ready to reach for his power to fight off his assailant, when the assailant presses close to his back and he recognises him at once.

“Crowley?”

“Who else would it be?” The demon sounds pleased with himself. “I have something for you.”

Aziraphale lifts his hand to brush the back of one of Crowley’s wrists. To his surprise, the skin is more bare than usual. No cuffs. No long sleeves. Even his heavy watch is gone. “What is it?” he asks, sliding his hand gently downwards.

“Keep touching and you won’t find out,” Crowley warns, his voice warm by Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale drops his hand at once, intrigued. “Very good, angel,” Crowley’s voice sinks to a whisper. “I like it when you do what you’re told.”

There’s something in his voice that sends a pleasant thrill down Aziraphale’s back. “I _always_ do what I’m told,” he half-protests.

The tip of Crowley’s nose brushes the edge of his ear and he can’t quite contain the tremor that runs through him. “You’re such a liar.” His breath is so hot on Aziraphale’s skin, deliciously so. “You _never_ do what you’re told, angel.”

“I– well, I try to!”

“Mm hm.” Crowley’s smirk is audible in his voice. “You’re going to have to do better than ‘try’ tonight.”

Aziraphale’s heart gives a peculiar flutter. He darts out his tongue to wet his lips. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Crowley’s tongue traces the curve of his ear and it takes all of Aziraphale’s willpower not to grasp at his arm, his legs quivering under him. “Oh _yes_. If you want to see what I have for you.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale says indignantly, tugging at the ends of his waistcoat to keep his hands well and truly occupied. “You’re being a terrible tease!” A thought dawns. “It almost feels as if you’re tempting me!”

Crowley plasters himself against Aziraphale’s back, so close he can feel the demon’s every breath against his ribs. “Oh angel,” Crowley purrs, nuzzling his ear, “ _when_ I tempt you, you’ll know.”

The breathless “fuck!” escapes him before he can stop it.

Crowley goes very still against his back, a long, slow breath washing against his throat. “That’s a naughty word, angel.”

Aziraphale drops his head back against Crowley’s shoulder. “You’re a _terrible_ influence on me.”

Crowley laughs softly, delightedly. “Oh don’t blame me for this, angel.” He nuzzled Aziraphale’s ear again, lighter this time. “Are you going to behave for me?”

Curiosity might have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, and Aziraphale is nothing if not curious and must have that curiosity sated. But of course, he knows himself well enough to say, “I’ll try my best.”

Crowley rubs his cheek lightly against Aziraphale’s ear. “Good angel,” he whispers with such approval that Aziraphale suspects he will be soft as butter by the time the night is out. He feels the whisper of a miracle beneath Crowley’s fingers, a strip of soft fabric. Silk. Light as air.

Crowley draws it close around his eyes, a makeshift blindfold. “Not too tight?”

Aziraphale’s heart is beating a rapid tattoo, his mind running ahead of him at the thought of what Crowley might have in mind for him. Enough to require Aziraphale’s absolute trust. Enough for him to give it. “No,” he manages to say. “It’s fine.”

“Good.” Crowley steps away from him and he almost protests the loss of contact. He hears the tap of Crowley’s shoes on the wooden floor, circling around in front of him. Fingertips brush his knuckles, then down over his fingers. “Give me your hands.”

Though part of him almost makes some dry comment about Crowley playing a prank to make him look silly, he knows that in this time, in this place, he must, can and will put all of his trust in Crowley. He loosens his fingers, groping for Crowley’s hands.

Crowley catches them at once, squeezing Aziraphale’s fingers. “Good.” It sounds more like a sigh of relief than anything else, as if he half-expected Aziraphale to rebuff him.

It’s ridiculous that he would think so, Aziraphale thinks, but then again, Crowley comes from a world of distrust and cruelty, where faith and trust were nothing. He clasps Crowley’s hands a little tighter, determined to prove worthy of the trust placed in him.

“What do you have in mind?” he asks softly, echoing his question of all those weeks ago.

“This way.”

The book shop has been his home and haven for two centuries. He knows every inch of it, so he can tell when anything on the floor has been moved, even without seeing. And it has been. The couch isn’t quite as close to the doorway as usual and there is a space where one of the chairs usually is. He instinctively sidesteps to avoid it only to find it isn’t there.

“I assume you haven’t tried redecorating,” he says lightly.

Crowley laughs. “I’m not that much of an idiot.”

“Just enough of one?” Aziraphale can’t help himself.

“Must be,” Crowley says and Aziraphale can hear the smile in his voice. “Went and fell for an angel, didn’t I?”

Even hearing the words on his lips is enough to make Aziraphale catch a small, sharp breath. “Oh, my dear…”

Crowley tugs on his fingers, pulling him forward another step, drawing him around 180 degrees. His hands are shaking, Aziraphale notices, as if he was the one blindfolded and lost. He offers what comfort he can, running his thumbs along Crowley’s knuckles.

“What now?” he asks when they’re knocking toes, so close his belly is brushing Crowley’s.

“Your coat,” Crowley says carefully. “Can I take it off?”

Aziraphale’s breath hitches. Not ordering. Asking. “Of course,” he says, reluctantly drawing his hands from Crowley’s. The demon steps beside him as he shrugs out of the coat, catching it and – Aziraphale’s heart swells with pleasure and gratitude – tapping his way across the back room to hang it up. “Thank you.”

“Oh, shush,” Crowley says, a little unsteadily. He hears the whisper of Crowley’s hands brushing together. “You should sit down,” he says. “There’s a chair behind you. One step back.”

Aziraphale takes a cautious half-step, then another, until the chair knocks against the back of his knees. It’s higher than his faithful armchairs or the leather-upholstered office chairs, broader, and he can feel the edge of a cushioned seat against his trousers. “That’s new…”

“Not new,” Crowley corrects. His fingertips press to the middle of Aziraphale’s chest, pushing just firmly enough. “Mine.”

Aziraphale drops into the seat, reaching out to steady himself, and encounters a broad, heavy arm with ornate engravings. He remembers Crowley’s flat and that ridiculous chair he stole from the Sun King’s palace. “You brought your throne?”

“Mm.”

“But I have plenty of chairs.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, feet tapping as he circles the chair. He always circles when he has something in mind, and Aziraphale tilts his head to follow his motion. “But your chairs don’t have what I need.”

“Oh?”

A hand brushes over his wrist on the arm of the chair. Not just a hand, he realises too late, but a strip of cool, thin cloth. Crowley drags it slowly around his wrist and at once Aziraphale realises what he’s about.

“Oh!”

Crowley freezes. “Angel? Too fast?”

Aziraphale’s heart is stuttering wildly. Oh this… this is not what he expected when Crowley spoke of ‘something’, but now that it’s an option…

“Not at all,” he says breathlessly and when Crowley doesn’t move – probably watching him, to be sure he isn’t pretending – he adds, “Please.”

Crowley moves, the rustle of the fabric of his clothes warning Aziraphale a moment before a kiss is pressed to the inside of his wrist. He starts so sharply his head knocks back against the padded back of the throne. Crowley laughs in delight, then draws the strip of cloth tighter, tight enough to bind Aziraphale’s wrist to the arm of the throne, but loose enough to allow him to move a little.

“Do you think this is necessary?” he asks, flexing his fingers against the cushioned arm.

“With your track record of bad behaviour?” Crowley’s shoes tap around to the other side of the throne and Aziraphale immediately lays his arm along the cushion. Wrist up, of course, because an angel can only hope. Instead of lips, fingertips ghost over Aziraphale’s wrist, making his own fingers twitch. A second strip of cloth drapes over his wrist, wraps and pulls tight. “Thought I’d be on the safe side.”

“Ah…” Aziraphale knows the best ways of showing a pouted lip, even when his blood is rushing in his ears and he’s having trouble recalling how to breathe. “You don’t trust me.”

Two hands are suddenly on his knees, pressing them apart and he feels Crowley’s ribs between his thighs, so close, and can picture the fiery gleam in his eyes. “Not to do as you’re told,” he hisses softly, close enough that Aziraphale can feel the tips of their noses brushing. “Not yet.”

Aziraphale presses his head back against the back of the throne, trying to steady his breathing. “I told you I would behave,” he says, trying for wounded, but sure he sounds more desperate than anything.

“You said,” Crowley says, as his fingers curl around Aziraphale’s left ankle, “you would _try_.”

His thumb grazes the point where sock ends and skin begins and Aziraphale squeezes his eyes closed behind the blindfold. Crowley has touched him from time to time, it’s true, but it’s usually limited to face, hair, neck and hands. Who knew that the skin of one’s ankle could be quite so sensitive?

“Ah,” he breathes out, his toes curling in his shoes.

Another strip of cloth draws around his ankle, pulling it closer to the chair leg. The thought of it, of being bound and blind and helpless sends a peculiar shiver right through him.

Crowley doesn’t speak again, not until both of the angel’s ankles are secured, then he slides up between Aziraphale’s thighs, bracing his forearms on them. Aziraphale can feel him breathing, the press and fall of his ribs between Aziraphale’s legs, the warmth of him through the fabric of his trousers.

“Comfortable?” Crowley asks. It’s only one word, but there’s wariness there and hope and caution. Still so afraid, his beloved demon.

Aziraphale makes a show of testing the bonds. They’re snug but not tight. If he put some effort in, he could probably wiggle free, which is more than likely what Crowley intended. This isn’t captivity. This is trust and placing himself utterly in Crowley’s hands. He shifts on the chair, feels the give of the soft, thick cushion and the heavy velvet rough against his palms. Oh, Crowley knows what he’s doing.

“Very,” he manages to say. And because he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t make Crowley just a little flustered, he smiles and says, “Thank you.”

Crowley’s choked laugh warms him to his toes. “You still talk bollocks,” he says, bracing his hands on Aziraphale’s thighs and pushing himself to his feet.

Aziraphale ducks his head to hide his smile. He listens as Crowley walks away, tap-tap-tapping all the while. He’s still in the room, but he’s quiet and when he stops moving, the air is so still it’s as if the world is holding its breath. And though he can’t see him, Aziraphale has the deepest suspicion that the demon is watching him from the far side of the room.

He relaxes into the chair, allowing himself to enjoy the luxury of it. It must have been reupholstered, because it is far softer than any chair of its time should be. The velvet is still plush on the arms and he spreads his fingers, moving them in slow circles, taking in the rough yet soft texture. He even goes so far as to tilt his head from side to side to let his brow brush the back to be sure it’s the same rich, heavy fabric. Exquisite and dense against his skin. And then there’s the carved heads of the arms. He can just touch them, tracing curves and hollows with his fingertips, as much as his bonds will allow.

A familiar hollow-sounding tap makes him turn his head a split second before the gramophone crackles. The volume is low, almost beyond hearing, but he recognises it at once, a smile breaking onto his face. “Oh… wonderful.”

More than half a century ago, he had twisted Crowley’s arm, persuaded him to accompany him to Glyndebourne. Crowley had huffed and pouted and grumbled all the way there, but on the way back had been remarkably quiet.

“Remember that?” Crowley sounds suddenly closer than he ought to be.

“Figaro,” Aziraphale nods, turning his head, trying to work out quite where Crowley is. “It was a lovely night.”

“Mm.”

Crowley’s voice is behind him, somehow, and he twists, startled. The tap of the shoes has gone completely. “I– ” He sounds ridiculous saying it. “I can’t hear you.”

Lips brush his ear. “I know,” Crowley breathes, sending electricity tingling through him and making him jolt wildly in the seat.

Maybe it’s a mercy, but then he hears the tap-tap-tap of shoes again as he sucks in breaths.

“Lord,” he manages. “What a fright you gave me.”

“A fright,” Crowley echoes, and while there is still an echo of wariness, there’s amusement too. “You usually go pink like that when you get a fright, do you?”

Aziraphale turns to face the direction he can only presume Crowley is standing in. “That’s beside the point.”

Crowley goes quiet again as the music plays. Glass clinks on wood. A wine glass perhaps?

“I was thinking,” Crowley says, as if they’re sitting on a bench in St. James’s park. “Maybe you can come over to mine some time.”

Aziraphale’s heart does that strange flutter thing again. “I wasn’t sure if you would want me to come again.”

There’s a snort, echoed by the creak and pop of a cork being twisted from a bottle. A sharp, sweet fragrance fills the air. “After you gave my plants such a coddling, you mean?” Liquid pours, splashing, gurgling from the mouth of the bottle. A soft thump of bottle on wood.

“There’s no need to terrorise them so,” Aziraphale said, curling his fingers against the arm of the chair.

“Probably not.” Crowley is moving closer, light on his feet again. The back of fingers skim Aziraphale’s cheek and Aziraphale leans into the touch without even thinking. “Ah, ah, angel. Sit still.”

Aziraphale makes a moue at him. “I can hardly do anything else, can I?”

He feels the warmth of a body close to his a heartbeat before a cheek runs along his, soft hair brushing along his skin. “Oh, I’m sure you’d find a way.” Teeth catch and tug on his earlobe, making him jump. “There you go again.” He sounds so smug and delighted. “Moving again.”

“Well, you’re not making it _easy_ , you know,” Aziraphale grumbles good-naturedly, almost sighing in disappointment when that bodily warmth draws away.

Crowley laughs. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

Narrow thighs are suddenly between his again and instinct has him strain against the restraints around his ankles, trying to catch him where he is.

“Angel.” There’s amused reproof in every syllable. “What did I _just_ tell you?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale relaxes back into the bonds, raising his hands apologetically. “Sorry.”

“The hell you are.” Crowley sounds far too happy and, in turn, that makes Aziraphale smile. He shines so brightly when he’s happy and if Aziraphale can make him so, then he will do everything he can to ensure it happens.

He hears the sip Crowley takes, the quiet swallow over the low background hum of the music. It doesn’t really count as moving to dart his tongue out along his lower lips. Or to inhale a little deeper to catch the scent of the wine.

“Oh!” He turns his face in Crowley’s direction. “That’s my–”

“Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” Crowley finishes for him. “Yes.” He hears the swish of the wine being swirled in the glass. “For a special occasion, you said.” A fingertip touches his chin, gently tilting it up. “Would you like some?”

Aziraphale’s world shrinks down to that glass-cooled fingertip beneath his chin. “Please.”

He expects the rim of the glass against his lip. What he doesn’t expect is Crowley’s wine-tart lips against his own.

“Not yet,” the demon whispers mischievously, then pulls away.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims in what isn’t entirely feigned indignation. It fizzles and dies when he feels a tug at his bowtie. His stomach flips unexpectedly. “What– what are you doing?”

He can hear the smile. “Making you more comfortable.”

The tie comes undone and the sensation of it being pulled loose from beneath his collar sends a shockingly powerful quiver right through him.

“Oh…” he manages, clutching at the arms of the throne. He isn’t the only one breathing a little harder and he isn’t surprised. This is so much more than Crowley has dared before.

When Crowley touches the button of his collar, Aziraphale can feel how much his hand is still shaking. So nervous, despite holding all the reins. To help him, the angel tilts his head back, baring his neck completely. He almost misses the tiny, indrawn breath.

The button pops open.

“Angel,” Crowley breathes. It sounds almost like a prayer and Aziraphale shudders convulsively when Crowley lightly traces the length of his throat with the ball of his thumb. “Look at you…”

Aziraphale’s mouth is bone-dry. He drags his tongue along his lower lip as Crowley’s thumb slides lower, dipping beneath his collar, spreading it a little wider. “Crowley…”

“You’re being _so_ good _,_ angel.”

The wine glass touches his lip and the liquid is sharp on his tongue. He drinks eagerly. A little too eagerly, wine splashing down his chin. “Oh!”

Crowley’s other hand is at his cheek and then a hot tongue swipes the trickle of wine from his lips to the curve of his chin, catching every drop and turning his bones to jelly where he sits.

“I’ve got you,” Crowley whispers and the lick becomes a pattern of butterfly kisses back up, slowly up to the corner of his mouth again and it takes every little bit of Aziraphale’s willpower not to turn, to claim, to guide…

And Crowley – blessed damn demon – knows it as well. “Lovely,” he whispers impishly.

“Tease.” Aziraphale juts out his lower lip.

“Yeah…” There’s a roughness to Crowley’s voice now, hoarse. He’s heard it before.

His hand draws away and a second button is twisted open. And a third. And those lips move lower. Aziraphale knocks his head against the back of the chair with a sharp gasp as Crowley’s tongue delicately dabs the hollow between his collarbones. Another button. Another kiss, lower. Another, another, another.

“Oh…”

All he can say now.

Lips and skin and tongue and hair brushing across. Every movement a fresh rash of goosebumps and shivers ricocheting though him. His hands twitch, shaking. He wants to touch. Oh, he wants to touch. Sink his fingers in that hair, guide those lips.

So easy to break the bonds. Only cloth. Only loose. Barely anything at all. All he needs to do is break free and take and…

He clenches his hands so hard around the lions’ heads on the arms, until his fingers are aching, his feet pressing hard to the floor, his head turned against the back of the chair. Best behaviour. For Crowley’s sake. Trust for trust.

His shirt is spread wide and Crowley’s hands ghost across his ribs – oh dear Lord, still trembling – and Aziraphale yelps, the sensation new and startling.

He feels Crowley flinch. “Too fast?”

He shakes his head, forcing himself to swallow. “N-not at all.”

The touch repeats and the tingle washes through him, making him squirm. “Oh!”

Crowley laughs. “Angel!” he says, breathlessly. “You’re ticklish!”

“Wh-what?”

Fingers dance across his ribs and he jolts, breath hitching. It– he’s right. It _tickles_ and Crowley is laughing and those wicked fingers of his are moving and Aziraphale find he can’t keep himself from laughing too, squirming as if he wishes to be out of reach, but oh, it’s lovely and strange and wonderful and ridiculous.

He’s limp and utterly breathless when he gasps out, “Too fast” and Crowley stops at once, his hands still and warm and safe on Aziraphale’s ribs. The slide a little lower and Aziraphale trembles when he feels the press of Crowley’s cheek – and the brush of his hair – against his bare belly.

“All right?” he asks.

Aziraphale can only nod, loosening his iron grip on the arms of the chair. His fingers are throbbing, but he couldn’t care less. He draws deeper breaths, feels Crowley’s head rise and fall with every one of them, as he tries to gather his scattered wits.

“Thank you,” he finally murmurs.

Crowley tilts his head to look up at him. “For what?”

Aziraphale has no words to explain. The thought. The care. The teasing. Using so many little things he loves to please him. “You know me.”

Crowley nudges his nose against the softness of Aziraphale’s belly. “Yeah. I’d hope so after six thousand years.” His nose is replaced with a firm kiss. “Which reminds me…” He pushes himself away to Aziraphale’s disappointment, but he only goes a few steps, then returns. “Hungry?”

Aziraphale wonders if Crowley is deliberately trying to ruin him. “Perhaps.”

And once again, he’s rendered speechless as Crowley climbs onto the throne with him. There’s room enough, certainly, but Aziraphale isn’t sure how much more his restraint can take, not when Crowley’s knees slide in on either side of his hips and he feels the drag of heavy fabric – not trousers – over his legs.

“Problem?” the demon inquires, sounding altogether too gleeful.

Aziraphale shakes his head, returning their hands to their definitely-not-touching positions on the lions’ heads. “N-not at all.”

Crowley laughs, settling his weight on Aziraphale’s lap. Whatever he’s wearing, it doesn’t feel like his usual clothing. Aziraphale clenches his hands tighter to keep himself from reaching out to explore and find out. “You’re still a rotten liar.”

“Well,” Aziraphale can’t help but reply, “you’re _really_ not making it easy for me.”

“I know,” Crowley says fondly. He leans a little closer, close enough for Aziraphale to feel coarse fabric brush against his chest. It almost feels like homespun. He’s distracted from it by the whisper of a demon’s cheek against his own and the words poured like a molten honey into his ear. “And you’re being _so_ good.”

He so very nearly wrenches his hand from the arm of the chair to pull Crowley against him. “Rebellion is getting more and more tempting by the moment,” he warns, his voice so thick he can barely recognise it himself.

Crowley spreads a hand on his bare chest, scorchingly warm. “Only a little longer,” he promises, then leans back. “Now, open your mouth.”

Aziraphale obeys, trying to keep his breathing in check.

The cold metal of a spoon touches his tongue and – as if Crowley has whipped away a sensory blindfold – his nose and mouth are overwhelmed by sweetness of fruit and spices. He closes his lips around the spoon, sighing with pleasure as rich, thick mousse caresses his tongue. It’s perfectly. Light and frothy and…

He pauses, swallowing. The demon is shivering again, but he recognises this kind of tremor. Crowley is trying not to laugh.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says slowly. “Apple? Really?”

The cloth of the physical blindfold is twitched away and his eyes adjust instantly and his heart thunders. Crowley’s hair is loose, even longer than it was this morning, all around his shoulders, falling over the heavy dark homespun cloth of a robe Aziraphale hasn’t seen in six millennia. His eyes are solid gold and he’s smiling wide and beautifully brilliant.

“Oh…” he breathes, remembering a garden, a wall, and that first strange and wonderful day.

“I told you you’d know when I tempted you,” Crowley says, beaming from ear to ear. He dips his finger into the pot he’s holding, then offers it – thick with mousse – to Aziraphale. “Go on, angel.” His eyes are dancing. “You know you want to.”

He couldn’t resist, even if he wanted to. He wraps his lips around Crowley’s offered finger, licking it clean and drinking in the sight of Crowley kneeling over him, the way he bites his lip, the way his eyes follow Aziraphale’s mouth, the way he flushes as if they haven’t touched before.

Perhaps it’s a little wicked of him, but as he draws his head back, he bites lightly on the very tip of Crowley’s finger.

Crowley laughs, sitting back, that wonderful smile spreading over his face. “Still a little of a bastard, eh, angel?”

“Says the demon who has me tied to a chair,” Aziraphale said with a sniff, though if he was to be honest, he would be more than happy to sit there and see Crowley so utterly relaxed and happy, even more so than usual.

“You love it,” Crowley says, pulling the spoon out of the pot and scooping the last of mousse onto it. He offers it and Aziraphale tries to school his smile as he accepts the offering. It really is quite delicious. “Anyway,” the demon adds airily, “you haven’t been tied up for the last ten minutes.”

Aziraphale blinks foolishly at him. He swallows the mouthful of mousse. “What?” he darts a look at his arms, and as Crowley pointed out, they’re unbound. “But when–?”

Crowley leans closer to nudge the tip of his nose against Aziraphale’s. “Long enough.” He rubs the tips of their noses together, his eyes glowing like banked fires. “Told you. You were being _so_ good.”

Aziraphale stares at him, dazed. Crowley unbound him, trusting him to restrain himself. “Oh, my dear…”

Crowley’s smile softens. “Go on,” he says. “I know you want to.”

At once, he sits up, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s body and pulling him flush against him, burying his face in the demon’s throat. He hears the clatter of the pot on the floor a second before Crowley’s arms wrap around him, fingers hooking into his back.

Aziraphale breathes him in, the warmth and familiarity and Crowley-ness of him. “Your hair,” he whispers against Crowley’s throat. He can feel it brushing his hands, even halfway down Crowley’s back. “It’s longer.”

“Mm.” Crowley nuzzles his hair. “I know you like it.”

Aziraphale draws back to stare at him. “For me?”

Crowley shrugs with a small smile. “I wanted to see what the fuss was about.”

Aziraphale’s heart feels too large for his chest to contain it. He reaches up and runs his fingers through the long, beautiful red curls. “Oh…” His voice is straining in his throat and his eyes are hot and wet. “Thank you, my darling.”

The look on Crowley’s face steals his breath and before he can move or say another word, Crowley’s lips find his, kissing him with an urgency that makes his head spin, scattered, heated kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his brow, everywhere.

When he is spent, he rests his brow against Aziraphale’s, one trembling hand running up and down the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

“You’re soft, angel,” he whispers.

“I know.” Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s hips, hauling him bodily closer, until there’s not even a finger’s breadth between them. And when Crowley gives a small, contented sigh and leans into him, Aziraphale couldn’t be happier.


End file.
